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From Cairo, our flight initially took us over the Red Sea, then across the heart of Saudi Arabia. From there, we turned south, heading over the tiny gulf states of Bahrain and Qatar until we crossed into the United Arab Emirates, the bright lights of Dubai easily visible along the horizon. Finally we flew into the Sultanate of Oman, a flight time of just three and a half hours.
Angela and I had high hopes for Muscat. We couldn’t wait to see the white buildings and the clear blue waters of the Gulf of Oman. In every picture we’d seen, Muscat looked truly beautiful, an unspoilt paradise in a rapidly expanding Middle East.
Night had fallen, but the efficient airport authorities meant we were in a taxi less than twenty minutes later. Oman, my fortieth country, was a world away from Cairo. The taxi was modern and quiet, the roads were smooth and ordered, and the beeping was non-existent. “Welcome to Muscat,” said our driver in very good English. “I hope you enjoy the hospitality of my country.”
As expected, the next day was hot and sunny, the temperature already needling 40°C. Our hotel, located in the Qurum
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White buildings of Qurumdistrict of Muscat, was situated at the end of a long beach road, which unfortunately was undergoing some sort of major construction work. This made access to the seashore quite difficult as we had to pass gangs of blue-robed Indian workmen, all of whom openly ogled Angela. When we arrived at the beach we found it to be deserted. Only a few shy crabs kept us company as we headed towards the sea. “Let's go to a souk,” suggested Angela. “There's a big one in Muttrah. I feel like doing some haggling.”
Unlike the bazaars of Cairo or Marrakech, Muttrah Souk was much smaller and much more civilized. Of course there were the hawkers, all men, trying to get us to look at their wares, usually touristy trinkets such as frankincense, toy camels, and Khanjars, the curved daggers that are the national symbol of Oman. “I give best price in Muscat,” they would all say. Angela ended up buying three scarves, all from different vendors.
Muscat, we quickly found out, was a tad on the expensive side for food and drink. Our lunch, at a beach fronted cafe cost us 18 Rials (£27). Even taxis were expensive. The
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Boats moored near our hotel days of cheap living in Muscat was clearly over.
That evening we caught another expensive taxi into the heart of old Muscat. Historically, this part of the city used to be a thriving trading centre, but nowadays it’s a bit different. The streets were quiet, and there wasn't an awlful lot to see apart from a bunch of museums. There was one beautiful building though - the magnificent Al Alam Palace, official residence of the Sultan of Oman. As we wandered towards it, its blue and gold arches certainly caught the eye, as did the cleanliness of the street leading up to it. In fact, everywhere in Muscat was spotless, right down to the pavements.
The streets were not the only impressive thing about Oman; the roads deserved special mention too. Compared to anywhere else we'd visited, including any city in Europe, they were in the best condition ever. Not a pothole in sight. And unlike a lot of other middle-eastern countries, the drivers were courteous too. We wandered away from the palace, looking for more sights.
“Where’s the harbour?” asked Angela. I told her I wasn't sure. Foolishly, we'd left the guide book back at the
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Haggling in Muttrah Souk hotel. I sniffed the air, turned to my left and right, then announced that we should head down the road past the blue mosque. Soon we were lost. Ten minutes later we spied a duo of Westerners, a woman and a man, both in their late sixties. We accosted them without delay. They turned out to be English ex-pats and so we asked for directions to the harbour. The woman, called Margaret, took charge straight away. She was a small, stout woman in her early sixties with an air of importance about her. “You want to see the harbour? Well if you give us ten minutes to visit the gallery, we’ll take you, won't we David?”
David, her husband, nodded. “Of course, dear. What ever you say.” The four of us ambled along a small side street lined with white buildings. They perfectly matched the colour of David's hair, I noted.
“We've lived in Oman for almost nine years,” said Margaret as we walked along. “But it’s changing so much now. I hardly recognise the place sometimes. Isn't that right, David. And please pick up the pace! We're on a tight schedule here.”
“Yes, dear,” he answered.
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Fabric for sale in Muttrah Souk “I'm coming.” David was clearly hen-pecked, but who could blame him with such a matriarch at the helm. The gallery was a small building. “Some of the pieces spectacular,” said Margaret as we stepped inside. “And I've met some of the artists personally. Have a look around but be sure to see upstairs. There’s some fabulous examples of wooden Omani doors.” They wandered off leaving Angela and I to ponder our good fortune. Margaret and David, both total strangers, had offered us a lift in their car. Perhaps the ex-pat community in Muscat were all like them, but somehow we doubted it.
The art on display
was quite eye-catching, and like Margaret had said, the wooden doors were brilliant. Eyeing some of the price-tags was also eye-catching, massively out of our price range unfortunately. A short while later we were led to a car and set off, and though David had the wheel, it was Margaret who held the driving seat.
Left here, now! Slow down David! You could've got in that space - such a shame! “We'll take a short tour of the harbour,” announced Margaret, her accent suggesting a life of culture. David brought the car
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Muttrah conrniche by day to a standstill and Margaret turned around to face us. “Okay,” she said. “We'll stop here for exactly two minutes so that you two can take some photos. Is that okay?” We both nodded like galoots. If the woman said two minutes, then two minutes it would be.
Muscat harbour area was actually quite small, and there was a distinct lack of boats. There was also an absence of people around except for us, but high up on a craggy rockface stood the Merani Fort, a 16th century Portuguese-built fortification. Margaret told us that it wasn't open to the public because it was used as the headquarters of the Muscat Garrison. I managed to snap off a quick photo before we were shepherded back into the car.
Ten minutes later we were dropped off in Muttrah, the heart of Muscat. As we came to a stop, an amusing incident occurred. It involved David, who up until this point had been rather quiet and restrained. As we entered a small carpark, a teenage boy began to approach the vehicle. David started mumbling to himself as the boy got closer. The boy stopped beside David's window. With a huff and
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Angela catching the last rays before sundown puff David wound it down. Before the boy had chance to say even a single word, David let rip. “Listen here, Sonny Jim!” be began with. “I just want to park my car and not have any funny business from the likes of you! Are you listening, boy? Because I've lived in Muscat longer than you've been alive! I know all the scams!”
The boy finally spoke. “No, I just say car park is free. Please park there in space.”
The window was wound up and we pulled away, leaving the boy behind. Perhaps sensing our bewilderment, David attempted an explanation. “Buggers are always trying to extract cash from us. But I'll not have it! Not on your Nelly!” After thanking them, Angela and I wandered away, laughing at the way David had almost blown a fuse over nothing. But we were filled with nothing but thanks to the both of them.
The next morning we arrived at a marina just south of Muscat and boarded our boat. It was 8am and our vessel was a small one, but it could certainly shift itself. Two powerful outboard motors provided the thrust to send us skimming over the
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Marina just south of Muscat waves at breakneck speed.
We'd booked the trip the night before after a chance conversation with a waiter in our hotel. He was from Sri Lanka and knew someone who worked in the marina, a friend, also from Sri Lanka. Cheaper than any quoted tour, we booked and were now aboard the boat.
After ten minutes of heart-thumping wave bashing, the boat slowed and suddenly we saw what we came to see. Dolphins leaping out of the water in graceful arcs. They were everywhere, and other boats soon arrived, full of eager tourists armed with cameras. At one point we saw a sea snake which skimmed its way along the surface before diving into the depths. We spent a couple of hours aboard the boat before we were returned to the marina, crammed full of expensive-looking yachts and speedboats.
That evening we wandered along Qurum beach to watch the sunset. Unlike earlier, the beach was now populated with people, most of them in Muslim attire. Families were sitting on blankets setting up impromptu barbecues. As the sun set, we took a stroll, occasionally receiving mouth-watering wafts of things cooking on the open fires. Children played under the
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A bead shop in the souk watchful eyes of their parents, and further along, a group of young men kicked a football across the sand. The sun quickly set behind some distant mountains and we retired to our hotel.
Our final day in Muscat turned out to be the best. Because we’d accepted the city for what it was - a small, but unbelievably beautiful place with long stretches of sandy beach - we could relax. We spent the morning strolling along the beach. “I still find it strange,” I said to Angela, “to see women in the sea wearing full sari's.” I pointed out to just beyond the surf. A couple of young women in brightly-flowing sari's were waist deep in the water, clearly having a whale of a time. And men wearing the traditional white dishdashes wandered through the sand. A world away from the beaches of Spain or Greece.
We ended up wandering a bit too far, and found ourselves in a no-man's-land of road construction and rocky water. Our original plan had been to visit Starbucks for a coffee before heading back. But Starbucks was all boarded up, most likely because of the construction. “Bugger,” I stated. The heat was
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Muttrah corniche by night hellish; it was actually making my head hurt. Sweat was streaming down my face and my t-shirt had dark patches which must have looked very nice to the cars passing us by. In the distance we could see a grand-looking building, a hotel we hoped. We traipsed towards it, like wanderers in the desert lumbering towards a mirage.
It wasn't a hotel. But we could see the Inter Continental a little further long. With my tongue feeling furry and my lips cracking from the heat, we reached the entrance and fell to our knees. A helpful porter dragged us in and smoothed soothing lotions upon our foreheads and dripped precious fluids upon our lips. We were saved. We had survived the mighty desert. The exterior of the hotel looked drab, reminding us of a multi-story carpark, but the interior was a different matter, opulent to the extreme. Our drinks were expensive but worth it after our walk in the heat.
For the remainder of the afternoon, we lounged by our hotel pool before heading to Muttrah once more. We ambled along the promenade, and at one point stopped to watch a man catching small crabs with a length
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Boys play on the beach as sunset beckons of string. He was adept at catching them, capturing five or six in the short time we watched. Unfortunately, our walk along the cornishe was hampered by the sheer amount of ogling stares Angela received. Some men even stopped just a short distance away to ogle even more. To escape their leers we headed back into the souk. Half an hour later, after spending many rials, we caught a taxi back to our hotel. It was time to leave Muscat.
Strengths: -Beautiful and clean
-The scenery is suitably exotic - a plethora of white against a backdrop of rugged mountains
-The weather
-Haggling in the souks
-Cleanliness
-Extremely safe
-Lack of tourists
-Spices and scarves
Weaknesses: -The lack of tourist infrastructure
-The heat
-Very expensive. Excluding flights and hotel, we spent over 400 pounds in just three days.
-Not an awful lot to see
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zizi
non-member comment
stares
"Unfortunately, our walk along the cornishe was hampered by the sheer amount of ogling stares Angela received. Some men even stopped just a short distance away to ogle even more." Look at how she is dressed and you wonder why they stare? Tourist have to keep in mind local standards of dress :-)